


Holidays Gone By

by StraightOuttaHimring



Series: Under the Shadow of Death, Light Endures [1]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Amon Ereb, Family, First Age, Fluff, Found Family, Gen, Gondolin, Holidays, Kidnap Dads, M/M, Nargothrond, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-13
Updated: 2020-01-19
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:08:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22238395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StraightOuttaHimring/pseuds/StraightOuttaHimring
Summary: Vignettes of four elves celebrating holidays over the years, and one holiday spent together.Glorfindel: Tarnin Austa in GondolinGildor: Begetting Day in NargothrondErestor: Turuhalmë on Amon ErebLindor: Coming of Age in LindonYestarë in Imladris
Relationships: Erestor/Glorfindel (Tolkien)
Series: Under the Shadow of Death, Light Endures [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1600771
Comments: 17
Kudos: 28





	1. Glorfindel: Tarnin Austa

**Author's Note:**

> This story can be read as a stand-alone, but the characters do tie in to my longer WIP, [The Harad Expedition](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19074706/chapters/45313402), and other future projects.   
> Written for the Season's Greetings Challenge at the [Silmarillion Writer's Guild.](http://www.silmarillionwritersguild.org/index.php)
> 
> Tarnin Austa - “Gates of Summer”, a Midsummer festival of Gondolin  
> “For know that on a night it was their custom to begin a solemn ceremony at midnight, continuing it even till the dawn of Tarnin Austa broke, and no voice was uttered in the city from midnight till the break of day, but the dawn they hailed with ancient songs. For years uncounted had the coming of summer thus been greeted with music of choirs, standing upon their gleaming eastern wall; and now comes even the night of vigil and the city is filled with silver lamps, while in the groves upon the new-leaved trees lights of silver colours swing, and low musics go along the ways, but no voice sings until the dawn.” (BoLT 2, The Fall of Gondolin)

Stars wheeled above, cold and uncaring, carving the same paths through the night sky that they had followed for millennia. Glorfindel, too, had walked the same paths day and night and day again for the past several hundred years. We walked a familiar path now, through the courtyard of the Golden Flower, ensuring decorations had been executed to the exact standard that was expected of his house. He needn't worry, of course. His staff would never let their home look anything less than the carefully painted image of perfection it was. 

With the city silent and lit only by soft silver lanterns and starlight, it was almost easy to forget the thousands of souls missing from within their high walls. Gondolin had always stood gleaming and proud, the beacon of hope and civilization in the East. After the Battle of Unnumbered Tears, though, the city limped along into each new year with less grace than before. Their numbers were greatly diminished, and even those remaining laughed less and laughed more quietly than before. At first, many had assumed that their numbers would grow again as new children were born and Gondolin entered a grand new age with Turgon as High King, but very chose to bring new life into the uncertain world and the few children there were grew up fiercer and less soft than those who came before them. 

His long, ornate robes incrusted with gold and jewels rustled over the white stone streets as Glorfindel made his way through the silent city with slow, measured steps meant to convey confidence and control. He offered small, serene smiles to any he passed, carefully calculated to be appropriately solemn while still conveying hope for the days to come. In the Square of the King, he paused to watch as a young couple danced along the edge of the Great Fountain as starlight sparkled in it's waters. It would be unseemly to be caught expressing such joy during what should have been a solemn time, but Glorfindel was loath to begrudge them whatever happiness they found in these dark years. 

He had long ago accepted that if his soul had a mate, they must reside outside the confining walls of the Hidden City, and as such, were unlikely to united with him any time in the foreseeable future. Unfortunately, acceptance did little to fill the cold, empty halls of a grand house built with more than a lone bachelor in mind. Perhaps if he were a better Lord, as Ecthelion was, he would have tried harder to find love amongst the elleth of the city. He smiled, wondering how likely it was that no voice was heard within the halls of the Fountain with Ecthelion's young son now among the newest citizens of Gondolin. 

Eventually he found himself upon the high Eastern wall, though there were still hours until dawn and he was one of only a few to steak his spot out so early. He startled slightly as he heard someone approach him from behind, but kept dutifully silent. Ecthelion strode forward and paused next to him along the walls. He was covered in so many diamonds Glorfindel wondered how he moved, though he couldn't deny it wasn't an awe-inspiring sight. Eru forbid Thel wasn't the most striking being in a room.

Without a word, Ecthelion wrapped an arm carefully around Glorfindel's back and allowed his silver-and-sapphire-crowned head to rest on Glorfindel's shoulder. Glorfindel sighed, allowing his melancholy to seep through in front of his friend. No doubt Ecthelion had seen him while he was in the square and rightfully guessed the same old loneliness had resurfaced, rarely mentioned but always lurking. 

They stood together, leaning into one another, until the sky began to show the first gray and purple streaks of pre-dawn. Others had joined them, a trickle at first though by now most of the city was in attendance. Further down the high walls, the royal family stood in all their splendor. Idril bounced a babbling Eärendil on her hip as the lords and ladies around her politely looked away, pretending the babe wasn't breaking the sacred silence of Tarnin Austa with his childish noises. 

From the opposite direction, Glorfindel caught Egalmoth's eye, prompting the other lord to make his way to the golden and silver pair. Even in the dim not-morning light, Glorfindel could tell that Egalmoth's robes managed to incorporate every color of the rainbow. He greeted them in an inappropriately large smile as he spun around, arms thrown wide and pantomiming the act of singing loud as though the sun were already rising. 

Ecthelion glared at his outburst, sharply slashing a flattened hand through the air in front of his neck in an attempt to signal Egalmoth to cease his shenanigans. Something must have been lost in translation, because instead Egalmoth seized Glorfindel and began to lead him in a wild, spinning dance along the narrow wall. Ecthelion had tried before to murder with a single look. Fortunately, it had not worked in the past and neither did it work on this night. From further down the wall, Turgon cast them his patented look of exasperation and disappointment that he had honed since childhood. Glorfindel shrugged apologetically to his king and life-long friend, shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter. 

The world was changing, Glorfindel could feel it. Something was coming, and though he did not know if it would be next month, next year, or next decade, he knew their days in this happy city hidden from time could not last. No matter what befell them though, these memories he would carry with him through this life and into the next


	2. Gildor - Begetting Day

Gildor strode through the grand halls of Nargothrond, head held high and eyes forward. His thick curls were woven with golden chains dripping in emeralds, denoting him as a prince of Finrod's household. His robes, too, were of the ornate, constricting style he hated but were so popular amongst the nobility of the Golden City. 

Had his father been alive, today would have been a day of feasting and merriment. The city would have shut down in favor of celebrating the royal family and perhaps drinking a few too many barrels of wine. But his father was not alive, and if Gildor was being honest, he had never been a part of the royal family; he was simply the boy that Finrod had picked up on some adventure somewhere. 

For so long, many had questioned Finrod's decision to adopt the small child with tawny-brown skin and unruly curls closer in color dark amber than burnished gold. When they looked at him, they did not see a prince of the House of Finarfin. Caring for him was not their lord's duty, after all, and he no doubt had a great many other, more important tasks to see to. 

What they failed to realize was that there was no other for either of them, so fast had their hearts latched to one another's. Gildor could hardly recall his parents' faces, but he could trace Finrod's influence in his life -- be it in his manner of dress, how he carried himself, or his love for adventure -- easier than he could trace a path on a map. Most only saw their golden-haired prince. He was allowed a glimpse of the wandering philosopher who in equal parts was capable of carving kingdoms from cliffsides and conversing with gods or simply teaching his small son how to navigate over mountain ranges or weave the most complex braids in style that season. 

If only that man never showed up at their door, if only those Feanorians had been sent off to their own kin sooner, if only, if only. But fate had taken a different path, and so here they were; Finrod was dead, Gildor had lost his family once more, and he could almost convince himself he was looking forward to spending his begetting day alone in his chambers. 

Gildor opened the door, face carefully blank, and walked into the blackness of his personal quarters. Except he didn't. He walked into blackness sure enough, but after fighting the strange thing enveloping him, he concluded that what he had walked into was actually a thick black curtain. After ripping the offending fabric out of his, he was shocked to see that his room was not dark, nor was it empty. 

"Surprise!" yelled Finduilas, Orodreth, and Celebrimbor in unison. 

And what do you know, Gildor was surprised. 

"You're in my room…" he accused dumbly. 

"Well yes, it is a surprise party," tutted Finduilas dancing over to throw her arms around him. "What did you think of the curtain? That was my idea." 

"Well, I thought for a moment I might have been dying, but it certainly achieved the desired effect. I am surprised," he chuckled, eyes drifting to Orodreth and then to Celebrimbor. 

Brim gave him a small smile before averting his eyes guiltily when Gildor refused to return the gesture. It had been over a month since word of Finrod's death reached their home and the conniving Feanorians had finally been turned out into the wild, and during all that time hardly a dozen words had passed between the two. Celebrimbor had certainly tried at first, but he quickly accepted the cool silence of the new status quo. 

"What do you think?" asked Orodreth in his steady, hesitant way. "I was worried such a small party might not be to your liking, but somehow it felt right to just have the family together this year." 

Gildor grinned, setting his cousin's fears at ease. He had been assured on many occasions that he had a particularly sunny smile, and it must be true for it soothed even Orodreth's anxieties. "It is perfect, Oro," he assured, throwing his arms around the quiet elf. "Truly perfect, thank you." 

Orodreth briefly returned the embrace before stepping back, but his smile lingered. "You haven't seen the best of it," he exclaimed. "You wait here, we are going to go get the food and drink." 

Orodreth and Findulias disappeared into one of the back room, but to his annoyance Celebrimbor rose but did not follow them. 

"I made you something for your begetting day." 

Gildor studied his emerald-lacquered nails carefully. "You shouldn't have," he said to his impeccable cuticles. 

Celebrimbor sighed, but for some reason continued to unwrap the gift, no doubt of impeccable craftmanship--that bastard. Gildor watched from the corner of his eye as Celebrimbor laid out an ornate hair clip on the small coffee table between them. Intricate whorls of flowers and vines crafted out of gold wire and adorned with emerald and golden beryl climbed upward from the clip that would sit on the side of his head. Chains of gold cascaded gracefully from each stem, upon which little gold bells dangled. Damn, it was beautiful. 

Celebrimbor arranged the strands of bells perfectly upon the cloth, as though he were some simple craftsman preparing his work for a potential customer and not the greatest smith of the age presenting a gift to his cousin. Each bauble jingled merrily as he moved it. 

Finally his work must have been done, for Celebrimbor stepped back and smiled at him. "Because your laughter is light and joyful as bells," he said, with a sad shrug. 

Gildor raised a hand to his mouth, eyes sparkling dangerously. "Why did you make this for me?" 

Celebrimbor shrugged again. "You, Oro, and Finduilas are my only family left. Who else would I make beautiful things for?" 

I can't wear it," argued Gildor, "My hair isn't up."

"Here, let me," said Celebrimbor, stepping forward gathering up his hair before Gildor could stop him and say that it had been Finrod who had always coaxed his unruly hair into the its' elaborate coils and knots. 

"I miss him," he admitted, finally allowing his old friend near again. 

"I know," whispered Celebrimbor, voice thick. "I miss him too." 

Gildor leaned into Celebrimbor's chest between his outstretched arms. It made it somewhat difficult for the other elf to secure his hair up, but he was a genius so Gildor had no doubt he would find some way to manage. 

Orodreth and Finduilas returned a moment later, laden down with food. 

"You're back! That took you long enough," exclaimed Gildor, whirling to face them with only a lingering wetness in his eyes. 

Orodreth raised an eyebrow in that annoyingly serene manner of his. "Oh, you put bells on him. Like a cat. Good, now we will know where he is at all times." 

"Dear Eru, Oro, is that a whole barrel of wine? There are four of us. Did you bring a whole barrel of wine for just the four of us?" Gildor plowed on, undeterred. 

"Well, I started with a few bottles, but then I figured it better to be safe than sorry," said Orodreth defensively. 

"You know once we open it, we have to drink all of it."

Orodreth sighed tiredly. "We don't have to drink all of it." 

"We absolutely have to drink all of it. Finduilas, are you in?"

Finduilas laughed, pulling her golden hair up into a high tail. "I can drink all three of you under the table and we all know it." 

"Very true," agreed Gildor, loosing no steam, "Celebrimbor? And let me remind you: I am the Prince of Nargothrond and you took an oath of fealty to this realm."

"You do not have to listen to him," said Orodreth, that kill-joy. 

"It is also my begetting day," countered Gildor. 

Celebrimbor looked between him and Orodreth, then gestured at Gildor and shrugged helplessly. "Fealty… begetting day… really no choice, sorry Oro," he said weakly. 

With the heavy sigh of a defeated man, Orodreth uncorked the barrel of wine and proceeded to fill four large goblets to the brim. 

"Happy begetting day, Gildor," he said, handing him the overflowing glass. 

"Thank you Oro. Now, which one of you is going to get drunk enough to kiss me tonight?"

"Gildor!" Orodreth snapped, "We are all related--each and every one of us."

"That's not a deal breaker for some cousins," countered Gildor with a salacious wink. 

Finduilas laughed so hard wine threatened to spill from her nose. Orodreth and Celebrimbor meanwhile were desperately looking at any insentient object in the room in lieu of actual eye contact. Gildor laughed at the odd group his little family made, bells chiming happily as he did so, and drank deeply from his glass. There was a whole barrel to get through, after all.


	3. Erestor - Turuhalmë

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Turuhalmë - the ‘Logdrawing’, bringing in of wood to Mar Vanwa Tyaliéva.” (BoLT 2, Index)  
> It is likely that the Yule log of Germanic Christian tradition served as inspiration. A Quenya name for the winter solstice is Amanar, “Yule and the beginning of the Sun’s return” (Letter to Jonathan Hepworth).

Wind raced over the wide plains of East Beleriand, screaming in anger as it tore past the weathered stone walls atop Amon Ereb. Though there was still longer to wait for the evening meal, the sun had sunk into the western horizon hours ago, plunging the free lands into an uneasy darkness.

Cold and still as stone, Erestor stood alone atop the grand fortress. Once the hilltop would have been illuminated by the many lights coming from the keep. Now, he could count the lit rooms on one hand.

"You know, if you don't move soon you will freeze like that, and then everyone will think Nerdanel herself has come into the East, so realistic will your statue be," teased Avalde, coming to lean against the parapet with him. The harsh wind whipped her thick curls around her head, no doubt creating a birds nest for her to untangle later.

"They should have been back by now," he replied, his keen elvish eyesight cutting through the darkness in the direction Maedhros and Meletyo had disappeared hours ago.

"You worry too much," tsked Avalde. "You are going to give yourself gray hair and then everyone will weep for your beauty lost so young, and when they ask what horrific tragedy befell you, you will be forced to tell them it was no tragedy but your own stubborn mind."

Erestor rolled his eyes. "With an imagination like that, perhaps it is I who should be weaving and leave the storytelling to you."

"And people say I am the dramatic one," Avalde huffed. "No doubt they just had to ride further to find a log for the Yule Hearth this year."

"You say that as if it is no concern," snapped Erestor. "The reason they had to ride further is that all the trees on the plains have withered and died. The land has seen one too many battles, it can no longer nourish all the life that still tries to cling to it's soil."

"Look," said Avalde, pointing toward the great southern forest. "There they come, just in time for you to cease your proclamations of doom."

Sure enough, in the distance a great cloud of dust billowed across a once-green land, kicked up by the hooves of two approaching horses.

"We should go alert the others," said Erestor, turning away from his vigil.

"Wait! Before we go, there was a reason I came searching for you. Here," she said, wrapping a thick shawl around his shoulders.

His hands instantly flew to the long stretch of fabric, gripping it tight as the wind pulled at the garment and their loose hair with a vengeance. The bulk of the shawl was black as night and fringed with soft tassels, but the edges were adorned with the bright, complex embroidery he had come to associate with the weavers of Thargelion. He fingered the gleaming threads of gold and green curiously.

"These aren't our colors?"

"No," replied Avalde smoothly, "But they compliment your eyes. And besides, those are the colors I had left."

He laughed, though the sound was snatched away and carried across the plain. "I love it, though I thought we agreed on no gifts except for the twins? I didn't get anything for you…"

Avalde waved her hand dismissively. "There is no need to worry. I do not need another book that I will only need to pack with me when we inevitably leave this place. When I marry a wealthy lord and have a grand library, I will commission you to fill it with many books, all fairytales and love stories. The steamier the better."

"I won't write that," replied Erestor flatly.

"You will, because I will demand it." Avalde tried to flip her hair dramatically, but the wind simply blew it back in her face. Erestor laughed even harder as he watched her try to spit out the mouthful of curls. "Oh shut up," she snapped. "Now enough sulking, it is Turuhalmë. We have a long night ahead of us waiting for the sun to rise again, and it should be spent with what loved ones are left to us."

"We should put the mulled wine over the fire so it is ready by the time they get back with the log."

"No doubt Haiye has already foreseen their arrival and started it herself," retorted Avalde. "Now stop your fretting. Remember what I said about gray hair?"

With that, she drug him from his vigil toward the great hall.

. . .

The log Maedhros and Meletyo brought back from the southern woods was great indeed, though it would have to be to last through the longest night of the year. Despite the dwindling rations, the people of Amon Ereb had somehow managed scrape together a rather grand feast for Turuhalmë, complete with a roast hog and decadent fruit pies from their stash of preserves.

With more than a few glasses of mulled wine buzzing through his veins, Erestor was sprawled lazily in front of the fire, the alcohol making his wit slow and smiles easy. Avalde and Haiye were sitting next to him, leaning against each other's backs for support. Avalde was watching with delight as the twins squealed over each gift they opened while Haiye gazed blankly in the distance, no doubt caught up in another vision or memory of the distant past as was her wont.

Maglor had somehow managed find a large set of wooden horses and warriors to gift to the boys, and Elrond now clutched one of the horses tightly to his chest as he sat cradled in Maglor's lap. It was much more appropriate than the elegant and fully functional hunting knives Maedhros had given them, though there was no questioning which gift Elros was more excited for.

Finally they opened his and Haiye's gift, an ornate compilation of stories from Gondolin that he had spent the past several months carefully transcribing while Haiye painted whimsical illustrations to accompany the tales.

"A book!" exclaimed Elros in mock surprise, "I never would have guessed!"

"Brat," Erestor spat, making a face at the little elfling nestled just out of his reach in the safety of s Maglor's embrace.

"What's it about?" asked Elrond, fingers trailing over the flowing script with reverence.

"It looks like a penned collection of stories from Gondolin, from whence your family hailed," said Maedhros solemnly, flipping through the pages. "They will be good stories for you."

The twins looked at him in silent deference. Though Maedhros guarded his words closely more and more with the passing year, Erestor doubted there would ever be a time when he couldn't silence the room with a single sentence, so eager where others to listen to him.

"Does it tell of the first time Tuor gazed upon Idril?" asked Elrond hopefully.

"It certainly does, with illustrations of love at first sight and everything," replied Erestor.

"What about Aredhel telling Turgon to shove his rules up his--"

"Elros!" exclaimed Maglor, clamping his hand over the boy's mouth. Not that it would have mattered, as the room was already echoing with laughter.

"Yes," Erestor answered, "though maybe not illustrated as vividly as you seem to remember it."

"But that is the most important part of the story," chuckled Maedhros, causing Elros to beam with pride from behind Maglor's constricting hand.

"Ada, will you read us something from the book," asked Elrond hopefully.

"Well," sighed Maglor with an indulgent smile, "I suppose it is long still until dawn and what better way to pass the time than with a story? What should I read?"

"Aredhel and her escorts battling giant, elf-eating spiders through the dreaded Nan Dungortheb!" exclaimed Elros, brandishing his knife dangerously.

"Absolutely not," Maglor shot down, carefully prying the knife from his hands, "It is far too dark and cold a night for that and I don't want you and your brother getting scared."

"How about the tale of Glorfindel and the Balrog?" suggested Erestor.

"Again?" cried Avalde, throwing her head back in exasperation only to have it promptly collide with Haiye's and startle the older girl out of her trance. "Did you at least illustrate him well?" she asked Haiye. Haiye threw her a mildly offended glance in response.

"It is a classic story," shrugged Erestor nonchalantly, "and well-suited for a long, dark night."

"If we must," Avalde sighed. "At least he is a rather handsome hero. Perhaps I shall marry him one day, and we shall have a dozen elflings and I will dress like a princess of the old world."

"No!" wailed Elros, throwing himself into Avalde's arms. "I am going to marry you, I just haven't grown up enough yet."

"What do you think, Haiye," asked Erestor, "are we sitting with the future Lady of the Golden Flower?" The seer treated them to a dramatic eye roll and a single, firm shake of the head. It was a flat no.

"You are kill-joys, the lot of you," spat Avalde, glaring at her two friends as she drew Elros into her lap.

"Are you all going to continue on like this, or can we start the story now?" asked Elrond imperiously from where he was still snuggled into Maglor's side.

"Apologies, my prince," replied Erestor pompously with a flourish of his wine glass. "We shan't keep you from your story any longer."

Maglor smiled at the rag-tag bunch assembled in front of him. Only when he judged them properly settled did he begin reading in his famously mellifluous voice:

_"Among the many stories of beauty and bravery that have passed down to us from the fair City of Gondolin, there is yet one whose valor outshines all others, whose memory elves draw strength from even on the darkest of nights when hope seems far from reach..."_

**Author's Note:**

> Any comments, feedback, and constructive criticism is always welcome!


End file.
